Before the test, everything made sense. The long hours, the aching muscles, the pressure that made your hands shake right before a routine. It was all part of the plan—your second Olympics. Gold again, maybe. Then done. You were supposed to nail this.

You hadn’t even told Lando you were late. You just…knew. Somewhere deep in your body—the same way you always knew when a landing would go wrong, when a bar would slip from your hands mid-air.

The bathroom light buzzed above you in the training facility. Your warmups were half-peeled off, a hoodie knotted around your waist, still shaking from morning tumbling.

Then two lines. Clear as day. No hesitations. No maybes.

Two lines. Four months out.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t move. You just stared.

He showed up that night after practice with takeout from your favorite place, his curls still messy from media day. He sat on your floor like he always did, long legs crossed, picking fries out of your bag even though he swore he wasn’t hungry.

You stood in front of him, arms folded tight.

“I’m pregnant.”

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

“No you’re not.”

“I took three tests.”

“Were they broken?”

“Lando.”

He just stared. Like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh, panic, or hug you.